


The Keys to Happiness

by oonaseckar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Miscarriage, Mpreg, Post Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 6,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21516301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Dean's twenty-two.  In his head.Except he's not.  He's awake from a coma, he's thirty (thirty!).And he's married.  What the hell?  Whoisthis Castiel dude?  (Dude!)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 103





	1. if you tell the truth, you don't have to remember anything

**Author's Note:**

> Story title from Rita Mae Brown.  
> Chapter title from Mark Twain.

Dean sat on the edge of his hospital bed, and looked around the room. It was odd to think that today was the day he got to go home, after so many weeks spent in here, even if he'd been unconscious for most of them. It was still odder to think of actually going home.

That was because he couldn't _remember_ home. He'd been in a coma – apparently, since that was what he was told. He'd woken up with partial retroactive amnesia: the last thing he could remember was being a carefree twenty-two year old student, mostly concerned with partying and getting through his qualifying exams.

It wasn't just the last eight years of his life he couldn't remember. He also couldn't remember the husband he was supposed to be going home with.

There was a knock on the door, just as he thought this one more time, in the umpteen times he'd considered it today. And without waiting for a response, his husband walked in.

And this time, like every time, it was almost as much of a shock as it had been the first time to Dean. To wake up hooked up to a monitor, and to be told that _no_ , he wasn't twenty-two any more, he was actually thirty. (Thirty! An old man!) That he'd graduated, gone through his professional training and accreditation, qualified. That his half-sister was married too, he was an uncle twice over. His friends had gone through jobs and relationships, moved away, moved back, grown beards, had breakdowns, got religion, all kinds of changes they'd gone through. And he could remember none of it.

Most startlingly, unbelievably, he wasn't a young, single gunslinger any longer. He was married. _Married_.

It might have been helpful if the nurses had thought to let this slip before. Before, that is, he'd regained consciousness, around ten a.m. on a random June Tuesday morning, to meet his surroundings and new reality. Bewildered. Fucking _bewildered_.

He'd only just begun to get accustomed to the general idea of having been injured, of having lost, as far as his brain was concerned right now, years out of his life. He'd had twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five, to try to acclimatize. While nurses had gabbed excitedly around him, and doctors had jabbed and tested him, asking rapid fire questions that confused his foggy brain.

None of that had been sufficient to prepare him. Not for a sickroom door that _exploded_ open. A handsome dark-haired man behind it, who ran into the room and jumped onto his bed and jumped onto him. Onto _Dean_. And grabbed him uncomfortably tight, and began _crying_. 

It must have sent his heart rate sky high, because one of the machines he was still hooked up to started chittering and going crazy. The nurses had dashed over, and started ineffectually patting this extremely random dude on the shoulder, trying to console the clearly inconsolable.


	2. you own what happened to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean isn't really used to getting humped and cried over by strange dudes. Well, as far as he can remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Anne Lamott.

The _normal_ reaction might have been to shove _crazy guy_ the hell _off_ of him, and ask him what the heck he thought he was doing. (Or a less highly edited version.)

But a), Dean was limp, exhausted. All his muscles were sore, like they'd been set on fire at some point and never properly put out, just left smouldering. Also b), he was puzzled by the nurses' ineffectuality. It was more like they were commiserating, _soothing_ this guy: rather than trying to get him the heck _off of Dean._ Like the freako perv he appeared to be. 

Something about it left Dean too stunned to struggle, though. Plus he was freaked out by the crying. Just generally freaked out – he'd had a rough half-hour. So instead, he just patted this crying, attractive, dark-haired dude on the shoulder – because hey, good manners cost nothing, that was how Dad had brought him up. The guy was presumably certifiable, after all. Probably _harmlessly_ certifiable. And he said, "Uh... dude. You okay?"

It didn't have an immediate effect. But the guy slowly stilled, and stopped sobbing, where he was dampening Dean's hospital gown. And then he lifted his head. His eyes were a clear green. And slightly hostile. It seemed unfair, as well as bizarre. Dean was being, after all, amazingly tolerant.

"What are you _talking_ about?" handsome dude demanded. "Okay? How okay do you _think_ I am? You've been in a coma for eighteen months: I've been _gosh-darn destroyed_ , that's what I've been. What do you _think_?"


	3. the forest of amnesia, where things have lost their names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This dude is WHAT?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Margaret Atwood.

"I think..." Dean said vaguely, feeling himself drift a little, because it felt like it would still be very easy to slip back into unconsciousness. "That I'm still not sure exactly what that has to do with me. _Pal_."

That got him a truly incredulous stare. "To _do_ with you? You're my husband. I'm _your_ husband. How could it be _more_ to do with you?"

Dean didn't actually answer any of that. It was too much of an avalanche, too dizzyingly unhinged. He just went white, and one of the machines started beeping again, and that was when the nurses really went to town. It was also the first time the word 'amnesia' was mentioned in his sickroom.


	4. to lose one husband looks like forgetfulness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, what's been going on for the last eight years? What can Charlie tell him about it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title adapts Oscar Wilde.

When he woke up again, his sister Charlie was there, and... _that guy_ wasn't. And that seemed to make things a whole lot less crazy and surreal, and easier, and he clung to her like a lifeline and gasped with the crazy weirdness of it. "Charlie! What the hell... Have I really been in a coma? Is this some massive practical joke?" he implored her. He hardly felt like himself. When did Dean Winchester ever implore anyone for anything?

Charlie, sweet wicked Charlie, laughed her ass off and climbed onto the bed with him, despite the best protests of the nurse fiddling with his monitors over on the other side. Then she cried a little bit, clutched him uncomfortably hard and buried her face in his hospital-gown-clad neck, left it warm and damp with tears. It took a while: but when she finally recovered, he said, "So. Eight years. Apparently I'm an old man now, qualified, and I picked up a hubby somewhere. How've _you_ been?"

She sniffed, and eased away slightly, gave him room to breathe. "Oh, you know. Uneventful. I've been through two boyfriends, one girlfriend, the Vermont job did not work out _at all_ due to the senior editor being a bipolar egomaniac, and I ran through a translators' Masters in half the assigned time to get the Japan job. Mary's had a baby, James got a DUI and he's drying out in Silver Hill. Sonja and Margaret got married. I'm sorry for taking a job away from you, little bro, I'm so sorry..." And that was the cue for more waterworks. He wished for tissues, and dabbed at her tears with the sheet.

"I was out cold, didn't know the difference. What difference would it have made?" he asked, reasonably. (Although there was a little twinge in his heart, and if he was honest he did feel a little bit abandoned at the thought. Charlie was the only family he had at this point. Well, apart from a husband who was also a stranger, but how useful was that?)

And Charlie sniffled some more, and took a hold of the front of his gown, examined it through flexing fingers and failed to meet his eyes. "I mean, I knew you were in good hands when I went. Castiel, he's really devoted to you, he never stopped visiting, I knew he never would... But the doctors said you weren't likely to wake up... And if I'm honest, I used to get upset all the time visiting, and... I was running away, Dean. It's awful, but I was running away. From you, from you being there, but not really there any more."


	5. I never met a man I could marry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acquiring a husband, like a puppy or a new jacket. Or a super-nice hunting rifle. How is Dean to adjust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Greta Garbo.

Dean couldn't have said he was exactly thrilled about her confession: but on the other hand, he could understand it, and she was still and always his baby sister. He stroked her hair comfortingly, and mused a bit. "Well, you know, I have to say I'm pretty impressed with myself," he observed. That fully deserved a giggle.

"Let me guess," she said, and lifted her head a little.

"You don't need to," he said, smiling up, and waggled his eyebrows at her. "Check out the hottie I bagged!"

Charlie crumpled into his chest and snorted with giggles. "Dean. Trust you to go for the deep and soulful insights into a difficult situation."

"Trust me not to," he said, smugly. It was more comfortable, right now, to stay on the lighter side, anyway. Although it was also difficult. "Although it would help if I knew a damn thing beyond that –- that, and that he turns on the waterworks quite easily and is a bit too touchy-feely-friendly with spouses who've never laid eyes on him before, as far as they can remember. Where the heck is he, anyway?"

"Oh, honey," she said, laughing and beating his chest very gently. "He was really happy! Happy to see you! Of course he was crying, you miserably stony-hearted jerk! Well, until you started with the whole _who the hell are you pal_ business, and freaked him out until we all realized what the hell was going on. I think he thought you'd been possessed by an evil spirit, or you were just super-pissed at him or something."

But Dean just shrugged. "I don't know a thing about him. How would I be pissed at him? Where is he, anyway?"


	6. memories warm you up from the inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the life Dean expected. But apparently it's the life he's got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is Haruki Murakami.

Charlie looked sober, looking into his eyes seriously. 'He's giving you some time. He went off to the hospital canteen, said he needed a coffee, but... well, it didn't go well, right? He knew you'd need some adjustment period when you woke up. You and me.'

Dean thought about it, and suddenly appreciated the consideration. 'I probably do. If only so you can give the inside skinny, all the intel. Jesus, Charlie. I'm married. As far as my brain's concerned, yesterday I was twenty-two, and my main concern was getting through my seminar on Fiduciary Obligations without fucking up the group project. And now I'm thirty – fuck me, I'm thirty – and somehow I've acquired a husband that my conscious mind knows nothing of, and how crazy is that? Can you imagine it? What is he expecting? Am I supposed to just resume married life with a guy I don't know from Adam, just because I woke up with a ring on my finger?' It was a serious question. Well, he supposed it was what anyone would expect. Your husband's sick, unconscious, in a coma, then he wakes up: of course you would automatically expect him to come home with you. Where else would he go?

He didn't feel panicked, exactly – nothing near. But certainly harassed, uncertain, bewildered, and it must have shown on his face, because Charlie quickly hugged him like crazy, tight and comforting. 'Well, I can't exactly say you could stay with me, because I have to go back and work out my contract in Japan, honey. But I have friends, and you have old friends even if they're out of state now, and we'd work something out if you really felt like you didn't want to go home with Castiel... Do you think you won't want to move back in with him?'


	7. Chapter 7

It seemed like a serious question, so Dean gave it some thought. The automatic reaction, that he might have given thirty seconds or so ago before Charlie asked him, would have been, 'Of course not, why would I, are you crazy!' But something about her asking him it in the first place gave him pause. Because why would Charlie even do that, if it didn't seem like a reasonable idea to her? And she knew the guy, knew Cas – his husband, for crying out loud – a lot better than he did. Like, at all.

'I don't really know,' Deane said, slow and thoughtful. 'I mean, it's all been a bit sprung on me. Being awake has been a bit sprung on me, bear in mind. How the hell am I supposed to know, right now? I don't know anything about the guy.' He contemplated that fact. 'Tell me about him, Charlie. Tell me about my husband.' The idea was goddamn funny, and he snorted. But Charlie complied.

Ten, fifteen minutes later, he had a much clearer picture: of the period of his coma, of the years before that he'd lost, whether temporarily or permanently. Of his marriage, and of the man he was married to. The full story. Which was simple enough: meeting at a professional association convention, courtship, marriage and a brief peaceful lull. Then Dean getting knocked down on his bike in traffic, and the simple knock and initially minor injuries suddenly deterioriating into unconsciousness, into coma. And that, it seemed, accounted for a year and a half of his life, not to mention the six years before also wiped from his hard drive. He wasn't too sure he was all that happy about some of it: but he was decided. He was going home with the guy anyway. To live with his husband, in their marital home.

* * *


	8. Chapter 8

***

So now, of course, it was two weeks later, and he was much better informed about his previous life. He knew that he'd been married to Castiel –- Castiel! He had a husband called Castiel! - for a year before the accident. That they'd dated for nine months before that, that he'd been out of it after the accident for eighteen months. That Castiel had visited him almost every day afterwards, despite medical staff gently telling him that the coma was so deep there was no possibility that Dean was aware, or that it would make a difference.

The nurses had gone crazy over this. All of them, every single last one, were totally adoring and devoted to Castiel, and his alleged devotion to his unconscious husband. They'd insisted on telling him every last detail: the plants Castiel had brought and watered for him, keeping every last one alive, naming them. The updating on all of their families' activities, reading updates from social media, showing him baby pics he couldn't open his eyes to look at. Reading him stories, thrillers and classics and ghost stories, watching their favorite TV shows together and holding Dean's hand while he did it.

Dean felt like he wasn't as charmed by the handsome, rich, amazing package deal he was being offered in the spousal line as he really _ought_ to be. Though he wasn't sure why. Sure, it wasn't so hot to miss out on almost eight years, basically a chunk of his youth that was close to over, depending on how you looked at it. On the other hand, it seemed like he'd got a decent exchange in the deal: a handsome husband. And loaded as well, clearly devoted to him, just waiting and panting to get him home.

Which was what Dean was waiting for, now. For Castiel, who was picking him up, taking him home, setting him down in their lovely suburban home complete with white picket fence. (He'd been shown pictures. Castiel _was_ loaded.)

It was just – odd, that was all. It was taking some getting used to, as an idea. Castiel was just too perfect, if anything – on paper, at least. And here Dean was, leaping right back into marriage, with a man he couldn't even remember.


	9. Chapter 9

Although, with very little in the way of family, and no friends instate any more, it seemed, he didn't have a lot of choice or options, at least in the short term. He'd checked out his financial position: and it seemed that, although his professional qualifications were stellar (he'd known he'd ace his actuarial exams, he'd known it!) the money was largely Castiels's.

Which sounded a little ugly, but... Of course, he could totally manage, if he really wanted to bail on the marriage, even temporarily. Charlie would help. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he wanted to see what it felt like, having a rich adoring spouse, being a trophy husband.

Anyway. There was no more time for thinking, because the sickroom door opened, and his husband greeted him shortly. There were none of the wet-faced sobbing embraces of that first few minutes on the very first day, before they'd both gone over the facts of Dean's amnesia, Castiel's status as his husband. Wow, it had been embarrassing: but Castiel had been quite good about it.

And after that they were at some kind of impasse: daily awkward visits, while the docs kept Dean in another week, with Castiel determinedly kissing his cheek, holding his hand, and sitting by his bed with a half-angry face. This stranger he was married to, it was almost impossible to get used to. Charlie had had to go back to her job, and he could only stay in touch via social media and video-links over the internet. It wasn't at all the same.

And now it was the day of reckoning, of homecoming, and Castiel insisted on lightly embracing him – which still felt weird – and pecking him on the cheek. Dean didn't mind. A kiss from a handsome fellow with fond feelings for him, why would he mind? It was just strange to feel like he was a known quantity to Castiel: where Castiel was a mystery, albeit not a complete one any more, to him.


	10. Chapter 10

But, he thought, he'd get to know the guy. There were no two ways about it: he'd have to. In superficial, and more intimate ways.

Castiel was holding onto his hand, had retained it after backing off a little from the cheek-kissing. He did that, had kept doing it: initiating contact, in subtle and unalarming ways, repeatedly non-verbally reminding Dean that they were married. That Dean belonged to him, and he to Dean. That was what it felt like, any how. Which might be great: if he felt the same way himself. And maybe he would, after a while. That was a part of why he was returning 'home' with the man To find out what they'd had together, and if it was something he wanted to keep.

* * *

Driving up their driveway, in the suburban gated community that was so ostentatiously showy it was embarrassing, Dean wanted to don his sunglasses. That was to block out the glare from the expanse of flashy glaziery, in the huge, modernist, designer-created construction that was the marital home. But maybe it would have been taken as a little sarcastic. He had a feeling Castiel was finding him quiet, difficult, an unknown quantity. His overtures, his gestures of affection, were a little too deliberate and rehearsed: as if he'd thought them over beforehand, and staged them to cause the least amount of alarm and possible offence, the most rapprochement and warmth flowing between them.

That was okay. Dean was resolved that he needed to know – and to know quickly – whether there was any future in this marriage, not to waste his time on something that wasn't going to go anywhere. He had his own methods: he'd been putting them to work for a long time: even as far as he could remember.


	11. Chapter 11

Getting out, Castiel had his bags out of the back before Dean could even collect himself and think about it. 'This way, Dean,' he said calmly, and led Dean into the house, and that was where it all began, where he started to explore. The house, first. And then his marriage, and his husband.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel POV.

Castiel led his husband into their house, like a child by the hand . His heart churned in his chest as he did it: the doctors had warned him it was too soon, after all. He'd not listened: Dean had wanted to come home, asked, and who was Castiel to refuse him?

Dean walked through open doorways, looking and examining carefully, and stopped before the refrigerator door. This was Castiel's shrine, during the time they'd lost: the time of his loss to the world, his coma. Castiel had always kept a few family photos stuck there, maybe as many as four sometimes: he and Dean during courtship, after a year or so married, himself heavily pregnant. Scans of the embryo, that should have been their baby.

Now Dean was back, after months: whole, and sane, and _blank_. A blank slate, the accident had left him: a total amnesia that might never be remedied, the docs said. Still, he was back: and that was a gift, right?

Castiel huddled up close as Dean examined the clustered pictures that almost coated the door now: every lovely image of the three years of their marriage, the months of Castiel's pregnancy. Nothing documenting the dark months after miscarriage. Illicitly Cas breathed him in. There was something strange about being the only one of the two of them who remembered love. Closer and closer, he wanted to get.

Dean reached out, touched a hand to Castiel's face in an early photo: barely a couple of months, they'd known each other there, and Cas's face was young, round, smudged, dark in the shadows. Then without warning Dean's hand slipped back, caught at Castiel, gained a firm hold on the fleshy surround and bony softness of his hip.

His swivel and embrace Castiel welcomed eagerly enough. He hadn't had enough of it, this week since Dean finally properly woke. He'd been shy, diffident with him: and Dean himself had been bewildered. How could he be anything else, waking up to a husband and family he didn't know, any more than he knew his own name in the first minutes?


	13. Chapter 13

The less you knew, the more you needed something to cling to, Cas supposed: and Castiel was what belonged to him most thoroughly, he was assured. Maybe there was something more to it than that: a memory of the body, even when the brain had locked awareness away. In any case his hands slid and gripped around Castiel, and it was the first real feeling –- not just shared information –- from him in so long. Dean shivered, and Castiel could feel the _need_.

He pressed closer, and Dean pressed back, but harder, backed him up against the sink: and a little further back than that, back arching. Oh, he'd done that before: he just didn't _know_ it. When Cas reached up around his shoulders, and eased in closer, close as he could get, he murmured in Dean's ear. "Dean. You're home now. _Really_ home."

And he took it as an invitation, and why shouldn't he? Castiel's body was his home: more than anything else could be. Cas found himself hauled, swiveled onto the workspace, feet off the ground before he knew where he was, and it was good. It was familiar in a way that made him ache –- because it had been too long –- and he arched and swayed to give Dean better access, as his hard large hands strayed under his shirt, freed him from the tyranny of buttons and fabric. (He'd stopped to choose his newest boxers, a designer shirt, dressing to bring Dean home. Give him something to rip _off_.)

When his mouth locked on Castiel's it was a distraction, hot and wet and tasting Cas's lips, tongue sliding forcefully into his mouth. Maybe they both needed to stop worrying, stop thinking for a while. Memory would come, or it wouldn't. Meantime, their bodies already knew each other. His hand on Cas's chest was still a warm shock, though, fingers stumbling, hardening his nipple. His arm around Cas's waist tightened and Cas's breath caught. How had he managed for so long without this?


	14. Chapter 14

No need to stand on ceremony here: Cas reached down and yanked off his sweater, clingy and too hot and getting in the way so much too much. Dean paused a moment, breathless, and locked eyes with him, pressed up as he was half-naked against a wet sink. There was a finger on Cas's cheek, and Dean's eyes were steady on his. " _Husband_ ," he said, curiously. And it clearly meant more to him than Castiel's name, sought confirmation.

"Yes," Cas breathed, and it was all Dean needed to hoist him up onto the work surface and crowd in closer, like they could get any closer even. His mouth was on Cas's shoulder, his upper arm, fingers grasping to _bruise_ , to make sure he was real. But he was real, there was somewhere Dean belonged. Fingers slid under his vest and something went _pop_ in his head and Cas was half-naked for sure. And it was only with Dean's mouth on his nipple, that it happened.

Cas flipped. That was what happened. Because the accident was _Dean's_ fault –- or at least, he didn't have to hare off after an argument, driving while angry enough to qualify as impaired, in Cas's opinion at least if not a judge's. Because it left Cas alone, alone for months, and _pregnant_ , not knowing if Dean was ever going to wake up again. And for one of those months, not knowing if he was going to survive at all.

Cas had spent a lot of time weeping. Any husband would. But in the end, once he knew Dean was going to live, he was angry enough to kill him.

He was that angry now, as Dean picked him up, levered Cas's legs around his waist, turned to the door. He was oblivious, though: how would he know that Cas was a bomb on a timer, set to explode? It couldn't be repressed: it flooded out, the fury. As Dean carried him, a surge traveled through his body. And suddenly he was _hammering_ away at him, fists flailing at his shoulders, his chest, his face as Dean ducked and weaved to avoid the assault. His lovely face, stunned, freezing as all the rules changed mid-stride.

Castiel couldn't even get the words out, without sucking sobs and panting for air. "What –- you think you can just _walk back in here_ after this last year –- a _year_ , Dean –- and just _start up again_?" He was trying to hit Dean in the face, as Dean swiftly reversed back against the cupboards, probably for better control of a suddenly shrieking yelling punching man, clamped around him.


	15. Chapter 15

The fury, the adrenalin, it was like bleach running through his brain. It cleaned away everything but itself. Cas was sobbing, and almost _enjoying_ it. "You don't know my middle name! You don't know where we lived for the first two years we were married! You don't know you were _fucking someone else_ and that's why we were screaming at each other and you went off and _crashed_ and wiped me out of your brain!" That last one shredded his throat. But he tried to keep going, curses and smacks and imprecations pouring out of him.

Dean held him tighter: closer and closer, and if wasn't comfort or self-preservation Cas didn't know what. But then they were moving again, long quick strides. Dean brushed him against the door-jamb and he caught his leg. Dean swiveled, of course he swiveled because he didn't know the damn layout of the house, but then he sorted it out. Headed for the living room.

And Cas was still screaming. Still hitting. It really wasn't helping that Dean was _rubbing his back_ and _whispering in his ear:_ it only made his rage more frantic. "Shh, baby, baby, no, calm down...'

Calm down. Calm _down_. CALM THE FUCK DOWN. 

It started off a raging torrent of fury: Cas was just about to attempt to headbutt him, when he stopped walking. They were in the living room. Dean was up against the big roomy giant couch, and the air was taken out of Cas's lungs when he landed flat on his back on the cushions. No soft landing: Cas guessed Dean was worried about him managing to take an eye out, if he concentrated too much on making it slow and easy. Cas was trapped under his body, and Dean swiftly captured his hands up above his head, held him down there, panting heavily in Cas's ears but no heavier than him.


	16. Chapter 16

Cas was silenced, Dean was gasping like he was winded, they were at a standstill. Cas waited till he could maneuver and get in position to hurt him. To _hurt_ him, after everything he'd been through, what he'd put Cas through. His body resting heavy on Cas's, keeping him immobile, was too familiar, made him ache. He'd held Cas down like this before: in laughing games, in moments before they got caught up in pulling and digging at each other like wild animals. Like they couldn't get enough, like they'd tear into each other, _eat_ each other if they could.

He was still angry: but angry wasn't all he was, not now. He felt a lick of fire run down between his legs, set his dick alight, made him ease his legs a millimeter apart when he was barely aware of it, out of his control. Dean's face was pressed hard against his neck, and Cas could feel every breath, feel the smoothness and heat of his big hard hands on Cas's wrists. He tried to normalize his breathing, but it betrayed him, and he could identify the moment it betrayed him to Dean. He felt the shift in his body, the deep inhale: the shifting and pressing of his crotch, the pressing down of Cas's forearms as a shudder ran through his upper body.

Cas always wanted Dean: it didn't change just because he was furious. Just because he could be _any_ body under Dean, this minute. Maybe the body of his cheap sleazy girlfriend, something that they hadn't had a chance to sort out. Maybe now they never would, and it wasn't like the girl would be any help. (Not now she'd moved to Dallas, hared off out of town about three days after the accident.)

His hand slid up Cas's thigh like if he was quiet and sneaky enough Cas might not even _notice_. Since it was a move Cas remembered well enough from the early days of their courtship, there was no _way_ he wasn't going to notice. It wasn't that he wasn't still angry: he was just so _ready_ , too.

He was wearing black briefs, sleek and tight and barely there at all. All for _his_ benefit, again. The bastard. A flex of Dean's strong fingers pulling in opposite directions, and the fabric was torn. Cas thought, 'I should invoice the pig for that.' Except it would come out of their joint account, of course.


	17. a lover as faithful as guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the fabulous, incomparable Holly Lisle.

Cas wriggled under him and his breath was fast, faster, tearing out of his throat _hot_. When Dean's knees pressed together, sank between his legs, he let his legs fall apart. Wider and wider they fell, and with a tug his briefs were off. Dean threw them over at the trashcan and missed entirely, oblivious. His aim used to be unerring, supernaturally so. He wasn't paying attention: or only to Cas's collarbone, his nipple, as he eased the loose neck of Cas's sweater down past his shoulder, past his nipple, as far as it would go. His mouth latched on like a vampire to an i.v. line, and there was a sharp twinge and a curl of heat that sent a flood of ease and warmth down to Cas's balls.

He didn't need to know that. _I'm still angry_ , he reminded himself.

Dean knew it anyway. He _always_ knew it, back when he knew Cas from Adam. The arch of Cas's body didn't help, or the sobbing little whine that pushed its way out of his throat. Dean's face pushed into his neck, and he could feel the slickness, the sweat that made it slippery between them. "If I was fucking someone else, then I was clearly an idiot,' Dean mumbled, muffled.

Cas wrenched a hand free and smacked him round the head, hard enough to flip his skull. "No argument there," he panted.

When Dean's head lifted, there was a grin on his face. "When I had this waiting for me at home, right?" He didn't wait for Castiel's response: just hitched his other leg in and split Cas's legs wider, hips opening up, making him suck in air for the promise, the threat. "Because you've been _waiting_ for me, haven't you, baby?" He nosed at Cas's neck: there was a tickle and a wet slide of tongue that made Cas shudder, and he didn't know if Dean was listening any more.

But he said, "I'd have waited forever. I was waiting to _punish_ you," anyway.


	18. Chapter 18

His only response was to lift Cas's ass up and unzip his flies, pull his own cock out and press the head against Cas's crotch. His head dropped against Cas's shoulder. "I can't remember... I can't remember. But this feels..."

His breath was fast and hot against Cas's ear. "Familiar?' Cas whispered. "Right?"

"Fucking _hot_ ," Dean answered, and shoved a hand down Cas's pants suddenly, as he gasped. This Cas remembered, but memory didn't help him any. Not with the raw grip, the sudden shock. The rhythm that was imposed on him, and had more in common with a jackrabbit than the slow gentle rock that he'd be using bringing himself off, alone. Dean's hand shoved down, pushed back foreskin, and searched out the spot that'd ease it, lubricate him with precum and bring him into this rhythm. And Cas wanted to fight it, to fail to co-operate, but he _couldn't_. They'd danced this dance too often: his body knew it too well.


	19. Chapter 19

It was too good. Short-term pleasure won out over long term anger. Hot pleasure cooked up down there, spooling up and making Cas convulse, digging his fingers into the smooth sweat-wet skin of Dean's shoulders. And as he hammered against Cas's belly –- strange to Dean as he was, stranger as he might as well be –- Cas straddled his feet forward, lifted his hips, pressed forward. To give Dean better access, leave him free to slow and luxuriate and watch as he dry-humped against Cas -- not so dry, soon -- as Cas closed his eyes and _felt_ it, out of control, not under his direction.

Dean was close and Cas could feel it, knew the signs well enough: the change in his breathing, the digging in of his fingers as he held Cas tighter, immobile as he thrust. Cas wasn't so close, just halfway there, but Dean was coming anyway, and Cas clutched tighter to his shoulders as it came. Dean's teeth caught on his collarbone, his hands pushed Castiel's shoulders hard against the wall as his breath became a high keening. Cas felt the speeding, the jerk and spasm as he was closer and closer and then he was _there_ , and he keened and sprawled against Cas as he hit it. The sweat and shuddering against Cas, sticking to his belly, marking his nice shirt with cum, as his orgasm peaked, held, held and finally released him, it made Cas _hate_ him. He still loved it, though.


	20. Chapter 20

Cas let his arms flail and fall above his head, as Dean's body slowed and stilled, ceased to work his cock, his arms and chest heavy and lax over Cas. And he couldn't help himself. "Do you remember me now?' he asked bitterly. "Do you even remember that? Or do you remember _her_ , and doing _that_ with her?"

It was a bittersweet moment, and the way his breath wouldn't slow, that lack of satisfaction, wasn't helping any. Dean was still for a moment, then caught Cas's hands up above his head, pressed them down into the pillows. His hushing and shushing, gentle into Cas's neck, was... He was too tired to be annoyed. Too near to tears, really.

When Dean spoke Cas felt his lips move, felt the moisture of it even, microscopic, his breath on Cas's neck. "I don't remember her. I don't remember you, either. But if I never remember you, I'd like you to teach me. Help me to learn you again."

Cas squeezed and wriggled: but only to get a little more comfortable. Tears were sticky salt on his face: sweat stuck between their bodies. If he was to be made over, Cas would just have to make him over _better_ , this time. ''I'll help you learn,' he conceded.


End file.
